


I Bet My Way To You

by Innerbeaty



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Engineer Lip Gallagher, Engineering, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mechanic Mickey Milkovich, Possessive Behavior, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 15:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innerbeaty/pseuds/Innerbeaty
Summary: Mickey is a mechanic in a small factory far from Chicago. It wasn't ideal life, but he has never expected it to be one. It all changes when he stumbles upon one handsome, sly, and absolutely shameless smartass with a soft spot for bettings.
Relationships: Lip Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	I Bet My Way To You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello kind people. This is my second work on this pairing. I can't help it, they are very inspiring. There are tons of grammar errors, but I still hope that you'll like it.

"Dear colleagues, it's official- we're fucked up," Stan says, hanging the handset back. 

They probably really are in throat-level deep shit if Stan allows himself swearing at two o'clock in the afternoon. This church boy type of a fellow doesn't sit down on his own chair without apologizing priorly. Everybody seems to lose the last of pieces of their brain cells after that. The whole office bang into the public panic headfirst.

_"What's gonna happen to us?"_

_"What we gonna do?"_

_"I've just taken a mortgage."_

_"How am I gonna pay my student loan now?"_

  
People just lost their shit, everyone, except for Mickey and Earl. Earl was five minutes away from retirement and Mickey, well Mickey was Mickey. 

"You don't seem to be bothered about the layoff," Earl underlines, fatherly looking at him. Mickey just shrugs. Growing up in the deepest shithole this country has seen has its advantages, he guesses. No matter what happens how much shit sucks you know it's not the ninth circle of hell. And once white trash, always white trash. 

  
"He doesn't give a shit because he knows that he will be the first one who flies out the window." Randy spits out. What he can say about Randy? There lots of things he could say about him. In fact, there is a long list of an adjective can be used to describe what a piece of shit Randy Marsters is, but screw him. In a week, two at the top, Mickey will not have to observe this envious asshole ever again. He fucking hates engineers. 

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too" 

Mickey leans back and lets himself enjoy watching somewhere around thirty adults going ape shit in hysteria. It may seem like he hates those people, which he doesn't. Not entirely. Most of them were pretty tolerable, but let's be clear here. Mickey hates all the social conventions and all its outflows, okay? And this entire working culture is just a well-disguised clusterfuck, and excuse him for not wanting to be a part of this shitshow. 

_"O-oh, Good day!"_

_"What wonderful weather."_

_"Did you see the new episode of Grey's Anatomy?"_

_"I love your dress."_

_"How is your prostate gland?"_

_"Your baby is so cute."_

_"God bless America."_

  
That amount of hypocrisy even his system cannot sustain. This lie they keep feeding each other just to create this facade of sympathy and good nature, until another office party where they get hammered and spill the shit on each other. Been there, seen that. So there is a reason why people may wrongly or not so wrongly assume he doesn't like them. Mickey's confident they all believe that they are good people, good citizens, and good Christians (or any other role model with unrealistic standards). But he's also certain he can see through their shit, and call him old-fashioned but convincing your surrounding that you are decent doesn't make you a good person. Just like wearing Nikes doesn't make you an Olympic champion. He's been told many times he has trust issues, which is 'duh' bitches. The fuck is he suppose to trust anyone, huh? 

Mickey has always been suspicious about so-called 'good people, they usually turn out to be batshit crazy assholes 90% of the time. That exactly what he thinks when he watches Tim, Stan's assistant, rushing into the office. If nice people are secretly assholes, he's almost sure that this shrinking violet will have Mickey his first interview on Fox News when he'll turn out to be a serial killer who eats his victims' private parts or something. Still water and shit. He needs to share his theory about so-called 'good people' someone. Someday. Fortunately or not, there are not many people in his life. Trust issues, remember? 

He gets out a cigarette and lights it up. Now that they are all going to hell, why not enjoy the road? 

Meanwhile Tim all red, panty, and sweaty runs towards his boss like a loyal pooch that about to kick off right in the middle of the office. Mickey suspects that's because he runs a distance longer than 20 feet. Stan puts his hand on the panting kid's back, encouraging him to catch his breath. Tim fishes out his inhaler, shakes it, and takes two puffs. 

"What's wrong with you?" Stan tries to read his face. 

"This... this," he shuts his eye and opens them again, "Here"   
He shoves the copy paper he was holding into his boss's hand, "We may have a tiny little chance to stay afloat" 

And looks at...looks directly at Mickey for some reason. 

Oh, Mickey doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all. 

Stan who was studying the paper hurriedly looks up at him with the same tensed gaze. What the fuck now? 

All employees were watching the scene like one organism as if on command all stare back at Mickey. Mickey remembers exact same hallucination when he first time tried tripping. Brrrr. 

"Milkovich?! Milkovich!!!!" Stan exclaims in disbelief. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey doesn't play coy when he says he is the worst candidate for this shit. Yes, he's been doing a pretty good job for the last seven or so years, but that's because his job doesn't require him to be likable. The last time he was in the juvie, he seriously took a thought about his future. Not that he had lots of options, to be honest, but...but he decided to take a shot and try to do something. More than his colorless future was offering. He had nothing to lose anyway, so he followed an inmate rehab program government offered in order to become a productive member of society or whatever shit they try to sell us, and it's bullshit if you think that it was all sunshine and roses. Mickey had to go through hell and back to be where he is now, but it's a long, sad, boring story for some other time. 

His current job is not prestigious or something. He is not raking cash, but this is a real deal compare to what his life could have been. He has a stable job. We-ell. Was stable until the machinery factory he was working in stumble upon a crisis after crisis and now was half leap away from bankruptcy. Until now he had enough money to pay his bills, save for a car and pay for Mindy's nail/hair/eyebrow/eyelashes courses. Life is not terrible. And although lately things are promised to be less bright for mentioned previously reasons, Mickey knows he never will be that scared little boy you used to be. He knows his capacity of what he is capable of and its fucking empowering. 

"Mickey, so happened that you are our last chance to survive," Stan says and lets out a neurotic chuckle. 

They sat him at his locked and curtained office, while both were towering over him with arms crossed. Mickey honestly wants to laugh at their faces. Being cornered by two nerds feel like some surreal thing from an alternative universe. Back in the day, they both would be lying on this precise ground with w broken ribs. 

"Suck to be you then." He leans back comfortably crossing his hands. 

"Listen, we are not happy to ask you either, and trust me when I say you are not our ideal choice." Tim starts, fixing nervously big glasses on his nose. 

"Then do all of us a favor and get this fucking shit out of your head." He starts to boil. Tim flinches a bit but quickly hold takes hold of himself. 

"Didn't you hear what I said? We are going under. It's a matter of time and before we are out of business." Stans cries and Mickey massages his temple. 

"The fuck do I have to do with it?" He snaps. With the corner of his eyes he notices Tim is about to put his hand on his shoulder, "Touch me and I'll break all the knuckles on your hand. All fifteen." He says not even looking at him. 

"There are 14 knuckles, you...moron." He quickly pulls his hand off, "I am not afraid of you" he adds stuttering.

"Since fucking when?" 

"Listen, Mickey." Stan calls for his attention and looks at him with huge begging Puss in Boots inspired pity eyes, Mickey wants to punch to just not to see his mug, "I am not asking for myself. It's for all of us. How long have you been working here?" 

"Three years," he grumbles.

"Three years, "he echoes, "That's quite some time now. There must be something that you like about this place, right? I know you do hate all the teamwork and ..." Stan look at Tim sniping his finger for a help 

"People," he offers 

"Peo-...no." he throws a glare at Tim, "I understand that you are not very social and I totally respect that, but I'm sure even you will find a grain of love and compassion in your heart because we need you. We really do?" 

"Holly, motherfucker, shut the fuck up, Jesus Christ. I'll do it" Mickey groans. Both nerds almost jump in the air like some looney tunes characters, "And never, ever do speech ever again."

"Never," Stan promises unable to hold his grin. 

"Where the fuck that came from? Pixar animation?"

"I improvised." 

"NO! And I want a 500$ bonus to my salary." He says, when their stupid idea goes down the drain, he at least may have extra cash.

"What else do you want? Private jet? Liver?" 

"I guess I overestimated my role in this fuckfest." Mickey stretches the words, and wipes his hands against his jeans. 

"No-o, No. Tim, it's fine. You got the bonus. It's the least we can do after forcing into it. It's not his job after all." says Stan, giving Mickey a weak smile  
  
"Deal."   


\----------------------------------------------------------------

"This is Lip Gallagher- the guy you need to convince to sign a contract with us for the supply. He is the Chief research officer in Magma Electronics in the USA." Stan shows the photo on Google search.

Mickey whistles. Magma Group one of the biggest conglomerates on this side of the World. That corporate machine produces literally everything from tooth sticks to high-functional nanotechnology. The guy in on the screen looked too young to be CRO. Mickey's impressed. 

"In fact one of the youngest chief research officers in history. He is the 'rising star of the Technology world' according to Forbes and was called 'high-tech genius' by Times. People prophesy him to be the next Elon Musk."

"Are we out of this one? How many sarcastic 'iron man' wannabes this world can bear?" Mickey says sluggishly, more focused on the potato chips rather than on the lecture. Candy, the receptionist, is taking notes for him because Mickey is not a bookworm. 

"And he is so hot," she adds her two pennies. 

"Lucky me." Mickey says wryly,"Why are you writing that in my notes?" 

"In case you forget," she gives him a sly smile. She doesn't know he is gay, right? 

"People, focus," Stan says snapping his fingers. "I need you to show him our offer and explain to him all the advantages. Mickey, we need this contract." 

"Why this dude again? I thought it's the job of supply manager, distributors, or whoever is responsible for that kind of crap."

"Yes, and yes. But we and our distributors came to an agreement about mutual separation," He says fixing his glasses on his nose. 

"Which means they dropped us like a bad fucking habit." He translates into human language. 

"Yes, they dumped us for Asian manufacturers. But....but we dropped them in return-"

"It doesn't work like that." 

"...and after binge-watching 'sex and the city', unhealthy amount of ice-cream and pizza, we've put our best Jimmy Choos and are back in the game proudly holding our head high, unshaken." 

"Yay, us!" Candy exclaims totally buying this cheap bullshit. 

"I feel second-handed embarrassment for both of you." Mickey doesn't want to be with them in the same room. "It doesn't explain why I am meeting with this guy. Correct me if I'm wrong but this guy is not responsible for the supplies. Isn't it easier to talk with their Supply Manager?" 

"Ye-ah, the thing is..." Stan looks down on the marker in his hand, embarrassingly, "That's not quite doable. There is something in-between that doesn't allow us to do so." he fixes his glasses again nervously, and Mickey sees through his bullshit. 

"What thing?" he narrows his eyes suspiciously. 

"Restraining order." He mutters almost inaudibly. 

"Res...Their supply manager got a restraining order on you?"

"And on anyone who works under me." He adds.

And Mickey loses it. Stan, a home flower softie, got a restraining order. That is hilarious. 

"Yeah, man. You are really something." He sucks his fingers, still grinning from ear to ear. Mickey's going to enjoy every moment of it. "what happened?" 

"Apparently it's rude to call him at night."Stan scoff, not looking sorry at all, "Or come to his home." He adds quietly. 

"No shit." Mickey grins. "Alright. I meet with this guy. Who did you fuck to get a meeting with the 'rising star and genius' himself ?" 

"Literally: no one." Stan inhales, "Figuratively: it was a gangbang... And I wasn't in the best end. I refuse to do it ever again"

  
\----------------------------------------------------------------  
Mickey was sitting in the restaurant of some posh hotel he thought would look a lobby of Casino in Las Vegas, a museum, or at a reception for a Queen. He expected it to be too posh, too bight, and just 'too' that would make him feel out of place and just too poor. Isn't that in what kind of places millionaires suppose to live? Mickey doesn't know shit about interior design, and making assumptions based on the Al Pacino movies is not the best way to do it apparently. Anyway, Mickey decides that he likes this place. It doesn't discriminate his white-trash persona. 

"Good day, sir. Can I get you a menu?" an attentive waiter is there with a prepared smile. 

"Ehm...Sure." she hands him a heavy menu in smooth leather binding. She keeps standing next to him prepared to take his order.

"It may take some time." He says, hesitantly.

She gives him an understanding smile and leaves him to study. He expected to be looked down on by literally everybody like they show in the movies, but everyone seems very polite and not really bothered by his look. Stan offered him his costume, but Stan looks like a victim of the holocaust and the only thing that could have fit would be socks. He also offered to rent one, Mickey offered him to fuck himself. Eventually, they came to a mutual agreement that Mickey's inner world is more important than the way he's dressed. 

Mickey is not an idiot and not a hopeless optimist like his dumbass boss. No need to be a fortune-teller to see that this lame-ass plan is gonna get blown. But he felt bad for his future ex-boss. Mickey is not a genius but he sensed that the guy would regret if he didn't do all he can to help the company that was established by his grandfather to recover. 

Mickey personally didn't have any burdens pulling him down. Mickey wouldn't be Milkovich if he didn't have a backup plan. He was planning to scape along doing freelance or take some shifts at one repair shop he knew until he doesn't find something legal and sustainable. Or just sustainable. He felt a lift in the mood and even decided to put an actual effort to convince that Gallagher guy to cooperate. Maybe, he thinks, he can try to do one right thing for a chance.

"Make it quick. I don't have a fucking time on whatever shit you have there." Right until that particular potential client doesn't make an appearance and knocks down the whole spirit. 

Meh, maybe next time. 

He hates rich people. Not only they have financial and social advantages, but they also for some definitely unknown and probably sick reason feel obligated to rub your nose at how superior they are compared to your poor ass. So, Mickey is not in a mood to arouse some asshole's ego. Thanks, not tonight. 

"Well, today's your lucky day. Same offer with 15% off in price. Tell Stan your decision over the phone." He says flatly, putting the prepared proposal on the table and brings his attention back to the menu. He has Stan's credit card. Mickey is true South Side and the opportunistic trait is deep in his system. He is gonna take it all out of this meeting.

"Can I get you anything?" The waitress comes back. 

"Yeah, you got beer?" Mickey asks, looking up at her. 

"We have Craft Brews, a Stout, IPA, Winter Wheat?" She eagerly lists.

"How about beer?" 

Her enthusiasm vanishes away, "I see what we got. Can I get you anything?" She says to another man, while Mickey goes back to studying the menu. The right thing would be to order the most expensive thing, but who knows those rich jerks. He doesn't want to accidentally order snail o that sort of shit. 

Awhile after the waitress left, there is a split of a second before Mickey feels uneasiness of someone's heavy gaze. He looks up to find the curly's face uncomfortably close, shamelessly staring at Mickey suspiciously.  
  
"What?" 

He doesn't reply right away and takes all the time he needs to study every inch of Mickey's face, making the latter want to squirm in his place. Mickey suddenly realizes how the computer screen epically failed to deliver a full range of colors, the sharpness of his skulls and jawline, the way his tanned skin complimented his eyes, making them twice brighter, and how his perfectly styled curls were flirtatiously attracting all the light it can reach. The guy was polished good. His blue eyes were so fixated on Mickey as if he wanted to get under his skin as if the fact he didn't do it yet was insulting. He could feel blond guys' perfume going through his nostrils with each inhale, and even such a small detail seemed to be made with no other purpose but to defeat the opponent.

When he finally opens his mouth, he says:   
  
**"Who the fuck are you?"**


End file.
